Monday, September 7, 2015

A Case of Self-Sabotaging Blues

A dear friend of mine recently came right out and told me
that the real reason I was single was actually because I wanted to be. I was a
bit dumb-founded at her comment, but because she was literally first and oldest
friend ever, I had to stop and really think about her observation.I mean, for the last two and a half years of
online dating, I truly did try and meet someone…not just someone, but
approximately 80+ applicants for the role of being my boyfriend.Of the whole lot, wasn’t there one that was
right for me if I only gave it a chance?I started thinking…

What if things had gone differently with Rodrigo, the brilliant,
refined and established New York Times journalist who wrote a weekly column about
economics?He sounded dreamy with his
by-line, Catalonian accent and steady job. If only I missed the pot hole in the Manhattan
street and didn’t have my brand new car’s tire shredded, perhaps I would have
been able to sit and enjoy hearing Rodrigo complain about his bitchy, demanding
editor rather than being on the phone with the towing company arguing about how
much it would be to tow my car back to New Jersey even though my car company’s
customer service told me it would be free.Maybe I should not have left my keys inside the car when it got hoisted
on the flat bed because then I would not have had to climb the truck in a dress
and heels to retrieve the keys only to break out in a sweat, while Rodrigo was
busy standing in the street playing on his phone and wondering whether he
should take a yellow cab or walk the fifteen blocks to his house…that must have
been the reason why he never called to make sure I got home okay after driving
back to New Jersey at 12:30 am in the front cab of the tow truck with Jaba the
Hutt, who, in addition to driving me home, so endearingly offered to tickle my
asshole for a small tip.

Or, perhaps I shouldn’t
have been such a shithead while on my date with the “mad shitter”, whose name I
can’t remember for the life of me.What
if I told him I didn’t like Indian food and we instead went for Japanese?Would that have kept him at the table so that
we could get to know one another or would he also have gotten diarrhea and
needed to excuse himself every two minutes to run to the shitter while I enjoyed
my saag paneer and his lamb vindaloo alone?Perhaps he saw my disappointment each time he returned to the table
because I felt like he was interrupting the fine company and titillating
conversation I was having with myself?Maybe, just maybe, if I followed him to the bathroom and once he
finished expunging whatever was left in his raw intestines I offered to wipe
his ass with a package of baby wipes while he bent over and touched his
toes?Most surely this would have
influenced his decision to ask me on a second date rather than tell me the next
day when I inquired about his tummy that it wouldn’t work out between us
because I had kids and he couldn’t imagine being in a serious relationship with
someone with kids.

Yes, my friend was right in that I purposely self-sabotage
any prospects of finding myself a boyfriend.I did it with Feel-Me-Up Felix, Close-Talker Claus, Limp-Dick Lou,
Skid-Marx Mark, Broken Fingers Phil, Allergy Bob, Commitment-Phobe Farhad,
Separated Stu, Newly-Divorced Don.I did
it with Fernando, the human rights emergency medical doctor that I had an
online relationship with for over 1 year but never met because he was forever
eluding our fateful meeting but then decided on the “one day” I had something
planned for my birthday that I should jump on a plane at that moment to see him;
what I selfish cunt I was for saying no. And, yes, I did it with the pony-tail yielding
tree hugger who invited me to Vermont and Panama following a three-day mini,
but promising love affair, then uninvited me because he was too busy…how stupid
of me to tell him to go “fuck a tree” when after two months of radio silence he
sent me the sweetest message via smoke signals asking if he could see me
because he took an impromptu trip to the area to visit his folks and had no
plans…

When I look back on these events, perhaps there
is truth in my friend’s words. Perhaps
all of these men would have been perfect for me if only, just only, I wasn’t
such a douche and actually regularly got a Brazilian wax…oh, yeah, I did that
too.

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About Indigo Blue

Indigo Blue is single mother, writer and attorney. Her words and commas have been featured in treatises and contracts you likely have never read nor would you want to. When getting a reprieve from juggling motherhood and a full-time career, Indigo Blue can be found online desperately seeking dates with douche bags.